The six people in the observation room sat in silence.
Although this was a breakup-for-literature, bickering-for-entertainment show, everyone in the industry knew the boundaries: you could roast your partner freely, but towards other guests, you still had to remain polite.
This left the group almost in pain from holding back, unable to say a single honest word…
Even Liu Yanchu stayed silent. Both rooms were equally quiet. If a clock were placed there, the second hand would seem to move infinitely slowly.
Amid this tension, Lü Ruosi suddenly let out a soft laugh.
The five heads turned toward her. She didn’t look at anyone else and said slowly, “No wonder the entertainment industry’s loneliest heart, Qin Wunian, will never disappoint his fans.”
The other five: “……”
Back in the truth-telling room, Gan Yawen shrank further into his chair. Normally he would have prompted Song Cheng to speak, but he felt that if he spoke now, something bad might happen.
Trying to lower his presence, he avoided looking at anyone and focused on the mirror in front of him. In the reflection, Qin Wunian and Song Cheng stared at each other. Qin Wunian met Song Cheng’s gaze without flinching; his jaw was tight, and his eyes increasingly sharp and aggressive.
Gan Yawen assumed Qin Wunian was provoking Song Cheng. Those familiar with him knew it wasn’t true—he was just bluffing.
He looked arrogant, saying such words without feeling wronged, but he wasn’t actually that calm. He was in a personal hell, staring at Song Cheng, unable to move until Song Cheng reacted.
After a pause, Song Cheng slowly lowered his eyes.
He opened his mouth: “I am a liar, that’s true. But you’re not much better.”
Raising his eyelids again, Song Cheng looked at Qin Wunian and said clearly, word by word: “Qin Wunian, I hate you.”
The six people in the observation room straightened simultaneously, unable to hide their astonishment: “Eek…”
Who would have thought? The first pair to hit the breaking point was the seemingly ordinary “reformation” pair.
After Qin Wunian and Song Cheng left, it was the couples’ turn. No matter how serious or tricky Gan Yawen’s questions were, Liu Yanchu’s answers always made people laugh, as if he wasn’t participating in the show at all, just there to entertain.
Lü Ruosi’s answers seemed formal but weren’t intimidating. Her serious-but-playful personality, combined with Liu Yanchu’s, made everyone realize why the two could maintain a long-term romance. They never showed off, yet anyone could see their love was genuine.
It was simply that they were so well-matched!
Suddenly, everyone wondered why such a perfectly matched couple, whose conversations left no room for interruption, decided to divorce.
The couples’ team skirted all the pitfalls gracefully, leaving the production team with no suspense, unlike the first two pairs. Fortunately, the last pair, the “Unforgettable” team, made up for it.
The “Unforgettable” team began dredging up old grievances. Yue Yuran complained that Su Yu found a new boyfriend just seven days after their breakup, a man who was also a dance teacher he had previously worked with. Su Yu accused Yue Yuran of interfering after their breakup—he broke up, he sought to reconcile, and he still cared about petty matters afterward.
Everyone in the house knew that the “Unforgettable” pair had secretly reconciled again, so in the truth-telling room, most of their act was performative. Perhaps following the director’s instructions, Yue Yuran suddenly stood up, pushed the table aside in anger, and stormed out of the room. Su Yu ruffled his hair, clearly frustrated, and not long after, he left as well.
With that, the day’s filming ended, around 4:30 in the afternoon. Everyone left the observation room; the camera crew went on duty, and the guests were free to move about, each with their own accompanying cameraman.
The couples’ pair had the least pressure. They said nothing, moving in perfect unison toward the restaurant, intending to spend their three hundred in show money on a hearty dinner. Yang Qing and Zhao Feifei exchanged a glance, snorted, and followed. Yang Qing bought only a salad, while Zhao Feifei inspected the options and decided against pre-made meals, instead purchasing ingredients to cook herself.
Zhao Feifei was set on cooking, Yue Yuran the same. Su Yu, still angry, had retreated to his room, clearly not planning to come back down. Facing the camera, Yue Yuran sincerely admitted that he had acted impulsively earlier, and now that he recognized his mistake, he would cook a meal himself and deliver it to Su Yu.
Zhao Feifei cooked with hardly any seasoning, while Yue Yuran recklessly poured sauces into his dish. Watching the ribs drown in soy sauce, everyone guessed that Su Yu would be even angrier when confronted with this “love dinner.”
Lü Ruosi carried the meal she had spent fifty of her show dollars on and, noticing two people missing, asked, “Where’s Qin Wunian? And Xiao Song? Where did they go?”
Yang Qing replied, “Upstairs.”
Liu Yanchu walked over. “Together?”
Yang Qing nodded. “Together.”
Qin Wunian was ahead, Song Cheng followed. Neither spoke. Yang Qing, smart enough not to probe, decided to let them cool off.
Lü Ruosi knew the same, but in front of the cameras, she had to maintain appearances. “Skipping dinner isn’t good for your health. Liu Yanchu, you should go upstairs and persuade them.”
Liu Yanchu: “……”
Why don’t you go yourself?
Lü Ruosi shot him a look, and he quietly agreed, “Alright, I’ll go after dinner.”
This villa was truly not soundproof.
As soon as the windows were open, any noise from below floated upward—including whatever they said.
Their room had no balcony, only a bay window. Qin Wunian stood there, motionless, like a marble statue.
Two cameras had been set up in the room: one in a ceiling corner, the other by the door. Except for the bathroom, all areas could be filmed. But the angle where Qin Wunian stood allowed the cameras to see him without capturing his face. The cameraman, after Qin Wunian returned to his room, was shut out and had no choice but to leave.
Song Cheng came out of the bathroom after washing his hands. In the two minutes he had been inside, Qin Wunian hadn’t moved.
Song Cheng paused for a moment before approaching Qin Wunian. He pulled something from his pocket, opened his palm, and extended it.
Qin Wunian’s face remained expressionless, as if his body were rusted. After two seconds, he slowly turned his eyes to Song Cheng’s hand.
It was the chocolate Qin Wunian had given him that morning.
Song Cheng: “I don’t want it. Keep it for yourself.”
Qin Wunian’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he lifted his left hand as if to take it. Song Cheng immediately closed his palm.
Frowning, he asked, “Can’t you ever give in a little?”
Even though hearing Song Cheng’s words had stunned him for a moment, even though he cared so much, why couldn’t he soften just a bit?
Qin Wunian asked in return, “Giving in… would that help you?”
Song Cheng was momentarily stunned.
He opened his mouth: “Yes, it would.”
“You say a soft word, I say one, and it cancels out today’s harshness.”
He paused mid-sentence, staring seriously at Qin Wunian. “But I have to hear it from you first, since you started this.”
Song Cheng always had a mental scale for fairness, measuring everything, making sure all effort received acknowledgment. Qin Wunian had disliked this about him before—it was as if everything, even himself, needed to be measured. But now, he felt perhaps a little calculation wasn’t so bad, because at least he wouldn’t lose out.
Qin Wunian lifted his eyes. Song Cheng waited patiently. After a few seconds, Qin Wunian spoke: “Go eat.”
Song Cheng: “…………”
He had fully expected Qin Wunian to step down, yet he didn’t.
Song Cheng silently looked at him and turned to leave, when suddenly Qin Wunian grabbed his hand. Just like that morning, he pressed a piece of chocolate into Song Cheng’s hand and whispered, “Ten o’clock tonight.”
Song Cheng instinctively glanced at the cameras in the room, then eyed Qin Wunian warily, ultimately deciding to trust him once more.
From the monitoring room, the director groaned: “……”
What could be so secret that the whole country couldn’t hear? Planning a private conversation so openly for tonight—this was too much.
The director considered secretly changing the cameras’ automatic shutoff to midnight, but imagined the wrath that would bring. He abandoned the thought.
At dinner, Song Cheng finally managed to speak with Liu Yanchu, barely fulfilling the director’s task. After Yue Yuran coaxed Su Yu into calming down, he came downstairs and organized everyone for a board game. Song Cheng played the werewolf role twice, and by 9:30, he said he was tired and returned upstairs.
The others gradually dispersed as well, returning to their rooms and assuming the “about to sleep” positions—part of the filming routine, which required bedtime shots every day.
Qin Wunian changed into his pajamas and lay on the bed. Song Cheng, beside him, turned on a bedside lamp, said goodnight to Qin Wunian, and then switched it off.
The dim room instantly sank into darkness. Unlike the afternoon nap, the night awakened some of Qin Wunian’s memories—those nights he had shared a bed with Song Cheng. He had always behaved properly, never crossing certain lines, leaving a lingering sense of regret that could only be fulfilled in dreams over the years.
Sometimes it still felt unreal, as if this moment were a dream—absurd, strange, yet intensely real, leaving him frustrated. Why did he always speak against his own feelings, as if that could reclaim lost dignity, vent past grievances? Yet those rehearsed reunions, imagined over and over, had never happened. He and Song Cheng were never like this… until now.
Squinting, Song Cheng checked his phone periodically. When it finally ticked from 21:59 to 22:00—ten o’clock—he sat up, reaching for the light and looking at Qin Wunian.
“Alright, it’s time—”
Before his hand could touch the bedside table, a shadow fell over him. His neck was pressed, and warm, damp breath brushed his lips. Song Cheng’s eyes widened in shock, frozen in place, until Qin Wunian finally pulled back slightly.
Yet he didn’t let go. In the faintest glimmer of light, Qin Wunian studied Song Cheng’s expression, then lifted his free hand, thumb lightly brushing over the corner of his lips.
Lowering his gaze, he murmured, “Lying to me again.”
Song Cheng took several slow seconds to remember to ask what he meant by lying—but before he could, Qin Wunian leaned in again, and the unsaid question dissolved. Song Cheng instinctively clutched Qin Wunian’s chest, as if his initial intent had not been accusation but invitation.